


collapsing inwards from skin to soul

by prouvairetry



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Self-Harm, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:36:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3481538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairetry/pseuds/prouvairetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“As Above, So Below,” Grantaire translated, hurriedly.</p><p>Enjolras closed his eyes in rapture.  “The key to all magic.  What is within me is outside of me.  As it is on Earth, so it is in Heaven.  As I am, so are my cells, so are my atoms— so is God.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archaeology & Alchemy AU, set in the Paris Catacombs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like lament or rain

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the glorious film As Above So Below and a personal geeky love of alchemy and catacombs. Title (and chapter titles) from Pablo Neruda's "Death Alone."

Enjolras’ voice echoed in the stairwell, and Grantaire froze.  Oh, God.  It had been nearly six months since they’d seen each other, and here Grantaire was covered in WD-40 grease and dirt, crouched under next to a six foot brass bell and a mere scoot away from a 110-foot-drop into the centre of the Cathedral.  He considered the merits of falling just so he’d never have to face Enjolras again.

 

“He, uh, he likes to sneak into places like this and fix things—,” Enjolras had been saying.

 

_He’s talking about me_ , Grantaire thought belatedly. _He’s looking for me.  Oh God._

 

“One— one hell of a hobby,” Enjolras’ friend said, faintly amused but his voice riddled with anxiety, as the two of them scaled the thin winding stairs.

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called fondly.  Grantaire shrunk back against the bell and sucked in a slow, shaky breath.  “Grantaire, I know you’re up here, I saw your bag.” ( _Oh God, oh God, oh God—_ ) Did he dare to turn over his shoulder— to _look_?

 

Enjolras had never looked more beautiful.  Grantaire let out all of his breath in one silent huffed sigh, and resolved not to look as weak in the knees as he felt.  

 

“Hi, how are you?” Enjolras asked, eyes cheerful.  His companion— an auburn-haired lanky fellow with a large camera— lingered behind him, picking at his fingernails and ignoring the tense gaze held between Enjolras and Grantaire.

 

Grantaire clenched his jaw.  “Whatever it is— _no_.”

 

“I haven’t even—”

 

“—I’ll spare you the time.  _No,_ ” Grantaire said, squaring his shoulders and facing Enjolras’ companion.  “Who’s this guy?  Who are you?”

 

The man with the camera cleared his throat.  “Marius.”

 

“He’s making a documentary about my search for the stone,” Enjolras cut in.

 

“He’s— he’s making— of course.  Marius, do yourself a big favor and stay _away_ from this one.” 

 

Marius chuckled nervously and scratched at the peeling skin on his knuckles.  Enjolras put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, which was seriously _unfair_ because— oh God those hands that smile that hair those fingers— “I just need _one little favor_ ,” Enjolras said, his voice soft and lilting.

 

“And I have a clock to fix,” Grantaire managed, his resolve dissolving, before Enjolras stepped so close to him that they almost both fell off the edge of the wooden platform.

 

“I found the Rose Key, Grantaire.” 

 

Oh—

 

“Of course you have.” For years they searched together, with the rest of their ragtag group, and now that Enjolras was solo he found what would make his name.  The Rose Key— the Rosetta Stone of alchemy.  The map to the philosopher’s stone.  Enjolras’ mother had killed herself trying to find that fucking rock, and then Enjolras, Grantaire, and half a dozen other twenty-somethings had wasted years putting their PhDs on hold so they might comb through the planet for the godforsaken thing. Most of them had given it up as a myth, dropping out one by one.  And now it was just Enjolras, and he found it.  “It— it was in Iran, wasn’t it,”  Grantaire choked out.

 

“Iran,—” (Enjolras resolutely ignored Grantaire’s mumbled _I knew it_ ) “—and now I need you to translate the Aramaic.  Please R, I need you.”

 

Grantaire stilled, imagining Enjolras scuffling through dusty winding underground passages— how his eyes lit up when he finally found the key.  He didn’t need Grantaire _then,_ did he.  He didn’t need anyone.  Fear stabbed through Grantaire in a sudden rush.  “Did you go to Iran by yourself?” 

 

Enjolras blushed and Grantaire sputtered out a disbelieving laugh.  “You’re a lunatic!  You could have been killed!” _Thank you, God—_

 

“But I wasn’t.  And now I have Marius,” (Grantaire’s face fell) “and you, if you’ll come along.” 

 

_If you’ll come along_.  He wasn’t just being invited to read some Aramaic.  It made some sense, he supposed.  Enjolras had been exploring in Iran and lectured in London, and wouldn’t have taken a detour so far into this obscure village on the French countryside for a long-lost friend he could easily replace with Google Translate.  He— he wanted him around.  Grantaire’s heart heart leapt into his throat.  

 

Suddenly the giant gears beside them roared to life.  “Oh, you fixed it,” Marius said helpfully, and Grantaire quickly ushered his two interlopers down the stairwell.

 

“It’s going to get _really loud!_ ” Grantaire shouted over the clanging brass bells, and the three of them ended up breathlessly giggling just outside of the heavy cathedral doors. 

 

Children ran from the shops across the way, with their parents trailing close behind, all rushing to see the chiming belltower with starry eyes.  Marius discreetly turned his camera on at the spectacle.

 

“Look at them,” Grantaire said, breathless and fond. “Hearing their church bells ring for the first time in almost 300 years.” 

 

Enjolras hummed his appreciation, and Grantaire was reminded of just how close together they stood.  Grantaire raised his eyes to Enjolras with the sudden clarity of a man six months sober— Enjolras was still slightly flushed and reaching out to touch Grantaire’s wrist like he had in the old days.  Grantaire knew in that moment that he was still very, very much in love.  

 

“So you’ll do it?” Enjolras asked, and their wrists brushed with a spark of electricity. “You’ll help me find the stone?”

 

How could he say no?

 

———————————————

 

The Rose Key— a large, flat, engraved slab of stone— lay flat in the centre of Grantaire’s rented living room, amongst papers and dictionaries and two half-finished mugs of coffee and a cold pot of tea.

 

A little man was carved into the stone (the phonetic symbols hinted him to be Nicholas Flamel), carrying a large key on his back.  Teeny-Flamel was surrounded by tiny ancient text and symbols.  “Ammonia,” Grantaire mumbled to himself, faintly.

 

Marius emerged from the kitchen balancing three bowls of soup.  “Ammonia?” he asked, setting the bowls down on the stained coffee table.  “Enjolras, wake up.  R, what does it say about ammonia?”

 

Grantaire pointed Marius to the slab and ran his finger over a large alchemical symbol among the Aramaic.  “Ammonia, this one.” Another sign— “Lime.”  

 

“The Aramaic here, between the symbols,” Marius began.  They had been discussing simple words over the past ten hours, since Marius seemed set on learning every language known to man, “it’s to, to mix? to combine?” 

 

Pride bubbled up inside of Grantaire— Marius was so eager to please (and fun to tease).  “ _Pour together,_ ” Grantaire said.  “Close, though.” 

 

Enjolras stirred from the couch.

 

“E, it says to pour Ammonia and Lime together.  Does that mean anything to you?” Marius asked, as he handed the sleepy blond a bowl of thai chicken soup. 

 

Enjolras ate a few spoonfuls of soup, and his eyes shot open.  “Holy shit, Ammonia and Lime, _yes_.  I could kiss you!” he cried, setting his bowl on the floor and squeezing Marius in a too-tight hug. 

 

Marius cleared his throat.  “Grantaire figured it out.  I don’t even speak Aramaic, Enjolras.” 

 

Their half-asleep leader paused, nodded his head with a teeny “ _Riiight, sorry,”_ and pulled away from Marius to look at Grantaire.  “Thanks, R,” he murmured, pacified.  He padded over the spread out dictionary pages and alchemical journals and plopped down next to Grantaire.  “Show me where it says Ammonia and Lime,” he said softly, leaning his sleepy head on Grantaire’s shaking shoulders.  His body was heaving with unsteady breaths.  “R, are you ok?”

 

Pause.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said softly.  “Coffee?”

 

Enjolras surveyed the mugs on the floor.  “I’ll take anything that isn’t spiked,” he said with a familiar half-grin.

 

Grantaire ignored the subtle jab.  _There_ was the E he was used to.  “Ammonia,” he said, pointing at the symbols on the Rose Key.  “ _Pour together_.  Lime.”  

 

“What about they key?  What’s that symbol?” Enjolras asked, eyes still not as sharp as usual.  He pointed at the little Flamel carrying a key on his back.  

 

Grantaire pushed a book of alchemical symbols to Enjolras.  “The key doesn’t mean anything.  There’s no key.”

 

Enjolras bit his lip and sat up straight.  He exhaled in wonder, touching his fingertips to the picture of the key on the little man’s back.  “This isn’t it,” he said, but he looked enraptured. 

 

“What?” Marius and Grantaire cried, somewhat mournfully.

 

“This isn’t the Rose Key,” Enjolras said, gloriously happy and expression almost trancelike.  “My God.”  He stumbled back to his couch and fell back asleep. 

 


	2. a suit without its wearer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some believe that your mother was mentally unstable."
> 
> Enjolras raised an eyebrow, and in that moment looked fiercely dangerous. "What, because she killed herself?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, yes, Enjolras is a transman.

« _There we are.  I just crossed the Iranian border_.»

 

The Enjolras on-screen was a mess.  His eyes were a bloodshot gray, lined with smudged kohl.  His hair was hidden with a maroon hijab.  Henna crawled along his exposed hands. 

 

The camera caught him at an odd angle.  Grantaire suspected he’d held it between his knees during the bus ride through the border. 

 

In the crunchy audio, a chicken clucked.

 

« _There are caves in the habala region set for demolition tonight._ »

 

Oh, God.

 

« _If this footage is found, since my body likely will not be, let it be known that I entered this region of my own free will.  I know the death sentence.  I know what I’m risking.  Marcelin Enjolras, August 3_ _ rd _ _, 2013._ »

 

Grantaire felt a shivering spasm wrack his whole body, and he instantly felt guilty for unintentionally elbowing the sleeping Marius in the gut.  Grantaire could never get good rest on airplanes, but fuck Marius for giving him this godawful terrifying footage to bide his time.  

 

“You okay?” Marius sleepily asked from the window seat. 

 

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras on the screen, looking dead tired but fiery and driven, dressed as a Persian woman and not afraid of death.  “Doesn’t this break your heart?” he asked Marius at last.

 

“He knew what he was doing,” Marius said, clicking on to the next video for Grantaire to see.

 

This time, Enjolras was in a dark cavern, holding the camera and a flashlight.  He wasn’t on screen, but his voice, ragged and crackly, carried through the passage.

 

« _I come here in honour of a great person, who did a great deal to inspire me, and always believed that we could find the key.»_ His voice faded out to a staticky hiss as he waved the flashlight around.

 

“Mother dearest,” Grantaire said quietly.  Marius pursed his lips.  

 

“Watch the video.”

 

Enjolras had turned the camera to face himself.  « _The truth here is that I have twenty minutes before sundown, and I haven’t found it.  But I’m too close now, I can’t let it go.  I might die here._ »

 

He didn’t sound nearly concerned enough. 

 

Grantaire felt himself choking on air, sweat beading on his forehead even though the real Enjolras was sleeping peacefully next to him.

 

The one on-screen continued coolly.

 

« _So firstly, to anyone who might find this video: I’m a male, and if you document me as an unidentified woman I will haunt the fuck out of you.  Secondly, R, I know you’re right.  I’m here because you were so right.  It’s here.  It’s in these tunnels.  I know it.  Thank you.  My battery is running low.  I’m going to turn off the camera.  Les Amis, do not forget to fight for truth and justice.  May one of you find the stone._ »

 

And the camera flicked off.

 

“Did he say _R_?” Grantaire asked, biting his lower lip.  “He almost killed himself because of me?”

 

“He almost died because of the Rose Key,” Marius said drowsily, stealing a pretzel off of Grantaire’s seat-back-tray and turning back to the window. 

 

Grantaire clicked onto the next video, where Enjolras looked infinitely more well-rested and cleaned up.  He was in London again.  Grantaire sighed in relief.  

 

« _Do I look in the camera?_ » he asked, sitting down behind his desk in London.

 

« _Yeah, right here,_ » Marius said from behind the lens.

 

« _This is weird.  Okay.  Hello, my name is Marcelin Enjolras.  I’m a professor at University College, London.  I have a PhD in Urban Archaeology and a Master’s in Chemistry.  And another PhD in Political Science.  Also a black belt in Brazillian Jiu Jitsu— so watch out!_ »  He giggled cheerfully on screen.  

 

« _Impressive,_ » Marius said.

 

« _My mother insisted on a very studious household._ » 

 

« _Your mother— what did she teach you about the stone?_ »

 

On-screen, Enjolras stiffened, and then relaxed.

 

« _Everything.  It turns base metals into gold, it provides eternal life.  It provides the greatest wish to the bearer.  In the wrong hands, it’s incredibly dangerous, but in the right hands it can be used for great justice._ » 

 

« _Justice?_ » Marius sounded faintly surprised.  Grantaire laughed to himself.

 

« _I imagine I was a revolutionary in a past life.  I want to use the stone to enact great change._ » 

 

Marius hummed thoughtfully behind the camera. « _Is that what you mother wanted the stone for?_ »

 

« _Nicholas_ _Flamel created the stone in Paris, and was supposedly buried with it.  When grave robbers came to find it, both his and his wife’s tombs were empty.  It is said that only his direct descendants know where the stone is, now.  Many believe Flamel is still alive.  Evangeline Flamel was my mother, and she was hunting for her birthright.  She believes that her psychological inheritance was denied her.  Most of our family refuses to discuss the stone, and so whatever knowledge that she might have had was lost through centuries of cowardice and censorship.  She wished for what was owed her.  I only wish for equality and peace— and having grown up with stories of the stone, I am following my mother’s path but for a different purpose._ »

 

« _Some believe that she was mentally unstable._ »

 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, and in that moment looked fiercely dangerous.

 

« _What, because she killed herself?_ »

 

The video ended there.  

 

———————————————

 

They were en route to Paris, because Enjolras had an idea.  When Enjolras had an idea, unfortunately, the rest of the world just had to follow along.  

 

“They key is on his back,” he had said manically, when they were in the countryside, moments after waking up a second time.  He demanded another bowl of soup and then bought three red-eye plane tickets which were boarding in less than an hour.  Grantaire and Marius let him take charge and followed his lead— how _typical_ , thought Grantaire.

  
They landed at five thirty in the morning, and Enjolras batted his eyelashes for a taxi.  

 

“The Musée de Cluny,” Enjolras told the driver, as Grantaire managed the luggage.  When he discovered that the taxi driver was Armenian, Marius hopped in the shotgun seat and practiced his small talk.  

 

“How are we going to a museum at fuck-o’-clock in the morning, Enjolras,” Grantaire muttered, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.  

 

“I’m a professor of Archaology.  I’ve had a key for years.”  Enjolras was bubbling out of his skin with excitement.

 

Grantaire groaned like a man who hadn’t slept in nearly 40 hours.  “ _Enjolras_ ,” he said.  “You’re going to get arrested again.”

 

Enjolras shrugged.

 

“I am not ending up in prison with you again,” Grantaire reminded him.

 

Enjolras’ eyes shot open and he looked astoundingly sheepish.  “Ooh.  I’m sorry, R, that was— oh God, that was the last time we saw each other, wasn’t it.”

 

Grantaire opted to glare. 

 

“I’d forgotten,” Enjolras said.  

  
Marius and the taxi driver burst out into a raucous laugh, which shattered the moment and gave Enjolras a chance to reach out for Grantaire’s wrist and brush over the pale scars there.  There were more than there had been six months ago in Turkey.  Enjolras frowned.

 

“I shouldn’t have left you, I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Grantaire said, drawing his arm back.  “We can talk about it later.  What’s at the Musée de Cluny?” 

 

———————————————

 

The museum, it turned out, housed Flamel’s tombstone.  They broke in through the back and Enjolras pulled the stone off its mounted place on the wall.

 

“Enjolras!” Marius said, trying to turn his camera on, while Grantaire shouted “ _Enjolras we are in a MUSEUM!”_

 

Without even flinching, Enjolras flipped the tombstone around and laid it on the ground.  Urgently he ran to the back room of the corridor.  He came back with cleaning supplies in his hands.  “Ammonia and Lime,” he said manically.  “All in common cleaning products.”  And he poured the stuff over the back of the 600-year-old tombstone.

 

“Enjolras, what the _fuck_ ,” Grantaire said, pushing him away from the relic.

 

“Nothing’s happening,” Enjolras said, his eyes fixed on the flat slab slick with chemical solutions. “Give me your lighter.”  

 

Grantaire scoffed.  “E, I’m a _restoration artist_ , we’re not lighting Nicholas Flamel’s tombstone on fire!”  

 

“It’s on the back, no-one will see,” Enjolras insisted, reaching into Grantaire’s back pocket.  Grantaire froze in the awkward embrace.  E nicked the lighter with ease.

 

The back of the tombstone went up in flames.  Marius squeaked, Grantaire cringed, and Enjolras looked like he was about to cry with delight.

 

The fire traced curling lines into the back of the tombstone, flames licking across words and sizzling out, leaving a charred inscription across its back.  

 

“This is it,” Enjolras said.  

 

From the far end of the museum, a door clicked.

 

“Is it 8am already?” Marius whispered, terrified, and Enjolras nearly knocked Grantaire over trying to get the stone back up on the wall. 

  
They ended up outside of the museum, and Enjolras suddenly put his head in his hands.  “We need to go back in,” he moaned. “I don’t know what it said.”

 

Maris sat next to Enjolras against the back wall of the museum.  “I’d be making a really shitty documentary if I hadn’t filmed that.”  

 

Enjolras smiled.  “Grantaire, want to translate?”

 

The stone was covered in tiny sprawling Aramaic words in very straight lines.

 

“So here he’s talking about a bug,” Grantaire offered, looking at the little screen where Marius had paused his footage.  “Can I zoom in?”

 

Marius pointed Grantaire to the dials on the camera.  

 

“Ok.  _Bug with a wing of gold_ — oh, it’s a beetle— uh, something something _Nile_.  Nile beetle. Probably a scarab.  _Pointing—_ uhh, _path_ , fuck, so.  There’s a scarab leading you— to _sunlight in true night._ Marius, can you _please_ not have the camera so close to my face.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“The scarab is pointing you to the day in night.  Easy enough.  Now, _half- halfway_ _between this_ — it says something like “ _symbol_ ” but I think it’s referring to the tomb— _and darkest gate.  Below the Kingdom of God—_ uh.  I this word either means _eat_ or _gain_.  What do you think?”

 

Enjolras leaned over Grantaire’s shoulder.  “What does it say if you translate it as _eat_?”

 

“ _Eat what you have lost._ Or _what you have_ _missed._ Or, I mean, you could say consume, too.  _Consume what you’ve missed?_ ”

 

“I think it’s gain.  Regain what’s lost— eternal life, right?” Marius interjected.

 

Enjolras nodded emphatically.  “We need to go 370,5 _pieds_ under Flamel’s tomb.” 

 

“What the fuck,” Grantaire said.

 

“Halfway between the tomb and the darkest gate,” said Enjolras as if it were all clear.  “Between Flamel's original burial site and the gates of Hell. In medieval times the devil’s number was 741.  They thought that hell was 741 _pieds_ beneath the ground.”

 

“How much is a _pied_?” Marius asked.

 

“In centimetres it’s— sorry, I forget you’re American, sometimes.  About.  About twelve inch, thirteen inch?  A little more than an American foot.”  Enjolras hadn’t even lifted his eyes to give an answer.  He was too busy writing down Grantaire’s sloppy translation in his moleskin.  

 

“Yeah, that’s all well and good, but how do we get 370,5 _pieds_ underneath the fucking ground?” Grantaire asked, snatching Enjolras’ notebook and correcting a few misremembered words.

 

“Catacombs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee, here begins the plot.


	3. drowning at the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras kissed Grantaire’s inner thigh and said, “Beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka, that nsfw flashback chapter.
> 
> warning for character death and consent under false pretences.

They’d met at grad school.  Enjolras was a scowling archangel flanked by two taller boys, and they were walking through the quad arguing about the relevance of _Harry Potter_ to a resurgent interest in Alchemy.  Grantaire couldn’t help but snicker and interrupt.  

 

Enjolras had looked at him and pierced him through the very soul with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, with arguments preconstructed and words poetical and angry.

 

And Grantaire fought back, as if that were what he was meant to do in life— as if he’d found his life’s greatest passion then and there arguing with a skinny blond stranger with a poisonous scowl. 

 

That was one of the best days of his life, because when one of Enjolras’ companions suggested they all grab lunch and discuss things further, he had agreed.

 

———————————————

 

Jehan had been their martyr.  They’d lost him in Dubrovnik.  The field had been beautiful, full of heather and lavender and mines left over from the civil war.  And they’d lost Jehan.

 

That was what tore them apart.  What good was some piece of rock if it had cost Jehan his very life? 

 

Courfeyrac had left that day, inconsolable.  Joly spent the rest of the night patching up Bossuet’s missing fingers from the explosion, and by the morning they were gone as well.

 

———————————————

 

Since Courf had left, Combeferre was less dedicated to the cause.  He slept more and ate less.  He gnawed on his lower lip until it bled, and tore the hair from his arms whenever he had a free moment.  When they were all in fifty-pound scuba gear within the channels in Venice, he’d let himself quietly sink to the bottom, and detached his oxygen.

 

Enjolras rose to the surface in plain view of a throng of tourists and began to scream for help, and by the end of that day Les Amis were in prison for their illegal exploits and Combeferre was pronounced dead.

 

———————————————

 

Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten horrendously drunk one night, shortly after.

 

“I can’t support this destruction anymore,” Bahorel said tearily, when he was thoroughly pissed.  “Feuilly and I are going to leave.”  

 

“Honestly?” Grantaire asked, black brows drawing up in concern.  “Bahorel, you can’t just—”

 

“I _can_ just, and I _will_ ,” Bahorel said definitively, and that was that. 

 

———————————————

 

And then it was just Enjolras and Grantaire, and then there was the prison in Turkey.  

 

———————————————

 

“Let me see your wrist?” Enjolras asked softly, as they huddled together in the damp prison cell.  

 

Grantaire paused, and then held out his left arm obligingly.  Enjolras counted his scars.  “Why do you do this,” Grantaire asked faintly.  “Why does it matter to you?”

 

Enjolras blinked back tears.  “I can’t lose you, R.”

 

“Because I’m the last one?”  

 

“No, because—” his words died in the humid air, and he rolled Grantaire’s sleeve back up.  

 

They sat against the wall, side by side, and Grantaire felt like there was a five-stone weight on his heart.  He reached to take Enjolras’ hand in his, but instead decided to take his shirt off.  It was too hot, and if they were going to die here he might as well be comfortable. 

 

Enjolras looked over at him and swallowed.

 

Grantaire flushed.  “I know, I’m sorry.  It’s just hot.  You don’t have to look.”  He knew he wasn’t beautiful— he was broad and tan and blanketed with hair, and his belly did him no favours.  

 

“Are you sweating because it’s hot in here, or because you haven’t had a smoke or a drink in forty-eight hours?” Enjolras asked sternly, though taking his shirt off as well.  His stomach was flat and creamy, and his chest was faintly scarred but gorgeous and freckled.  His freckles climbed up his shoulders and around the column of his neck.  Grantaire wanted to cry.  

 

“Fuck you, E.  I need something to take the edge off, what with following you around the fucking world.” 

 

Enjolras conceded, and brushed his fingertips along the stubble on Grantaire’s cheek.  “We’ll get out of here,” he said softly.  

 

Grantaire pushed Enjolras’ hands away.  “Personal space, please.”  _Why did he say that?  Was he denying himself his dying wish?  Why did—_

 

Enjolras looked at Grantaire curiously, and pressed his lips to Grantaire’s neck.  Grantaire whimpered, and wrapped his arms around the blond man, leaning in for more.  Enjolras marked him with open-mouthed sucking kisses, and stopped only to readjust his position and straddle the larger man.  Grantaire let out a low moan when Enjolras began to rut against him and latch to his collarbone.  Finally, Enjolras looked at his companion through heavy lids, and kissed him on the mouth.

 

Enjolras’ tongue was insistent and delicious, and Grantaire couldn’t give a fuck whether or not this was some delusional fever dream.  It was heavenly and ridiculously hot, to feel Enjolras’ soft lips, to feel Enjolras’ strong body pressed against him, to feel each other skin to skin in a tiny jail cell.

 

“Can I suck you off?” Enjolras mumbled in Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire felt instantly dizzy from all of the blood in his brain leaving for greener pastures.  

 

“Fuck, yes please,” he’d said, and Enjolras unbuttoned his pants and did down his zipper with ease.  

 

Enjolras kissed Grantaire’s inner thigh and said, “ _Beautiful_.” 

 

“I love you,” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras brought his lips to Grantaire’s painfully hard cock.  He swirled his tongue around the member, bestowing a messy kiss upon its crown.  Grantaire moaned loudly and cursed the entire Pantheon that he was getting the best moment of his life just hours before his impending execution.  Half of his mind was unable to detach from the amazing sensation of Enjolras’ mouth, but the rest of him bemoaned the death of his fantastical future— an apartment with Enjolras in Paris with a library and a studio— finding the Stone together and rallying the world to become a better place— Enjolras kissing him every morning as they woke up— Oh God, _getting married_ — Enjolras saying “I love you,” back— 

 

Grantaire came without warning into Enjolras’ mouth, and Enjolras obligingly swallowed and licked up the mess.  Grantaire pulled him up and soundly kissed him on the mouth, and that’s when he noticed the guards looming in shadow a few metres away. 

 

“This one is clearly a woman,” one said in Turkish gruffly, pointing at Enjolras.

 

“They just— he just said you were a woman,” Grantaire supplied anxiously to Enjolras, who looked strangely unbothered.

 

_“Perfect,_ ” he whispered.  

 

Grantaire only had half a second to think, _If that blowjob was just another of your ridiculous ploys I am going to kill myself._

 

They pulled Enjolras out of the cell, ripping his pants off with no semblance of respect.  Enjolras complied.  They pulled his boxers down and, upon seeing his anatomy, began to shove the naked man into a cell along the hall that was full of weeping, starving girls.  

 

But Enjolras— well, he was a blackbelt.  

 

And Grantaire was left alone in prison, three dead guards at his doorstep and a naked love of his life running out the back door.  

 

———————————————

 

That was the last time they had seen each other, and so little had changed, except for the fact that Enjolras seemed to have forgotten their tryst in the cell.  It had been a ploy, of course, and Grantaire had come to peace with that, as evidenced by the fresh cuts on his inner thigh where Enjolras had kissed once.  He was fine, he was fine, they were fine.

  
But when they checked into a two-bed hotel room in Paris, he opted to sleep alone, and let Marius deal with the archangel.


	4. setting out with the pale dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And why should we trust you?”
> 
> “You hardly have a choice. We are the only ones who know as much about the stone as the Great M. Marcelin Enjolras does. We’re what’s left of Patron-Minette.” 
> 
> Grantaire elbowed Marius, who was covertly filming the interaction. “The dark and dirty side of underground Alchemy exploits,” R mumbled. “They’re all wanted criminals.” 
> 
> Euphrasie smiled brightly. “All but me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait between updates! Life has cooled down, so hopefully this should be churning out a little faster.

“The fucking catacombs,” Grantaire grumbled under his breath.

 

“One would think that Narcisse Grantaire, a man who majored in Art History and who’s a dissertation away from a PhD in Archaeology, would _like_ the relics of _l’empire de la Mort_ ,” Marius pointed out in a narratorial tone, trying to focus the camera on Grantaire’s scowling face.

 

Marius turned his camera to follow Enjolras, who was buying tour tickets.  Grantaire groaned again.

 

“I don’t mind the dead people.  I don’t mind underground passageways, and all that.  But trust me, Marius, when you get down there you’ll know what I mean.  Have you seen the Capuchin Crypt in Roma?”

 

“Only in documentaries.  Creepy shit,” Marius answered under his breath.  He fiddled with his lens so that his camera might cleanly catch the conversation between Enjolras and the person manning the booth.

 

(“Now you three have to sign here, promising not to stray from the guided tour and to always obey the guides’ instructions—”

 

“Of _course,_ ” Enjolras chirped, his lips donning the most polyester of fake smiles.) 

 

“Imagine the Capuchin monks,” Grantaire said, handing Marius a map of the catacombs, “but like, ten fucking billion times worse.  It’s basically everyone who died in France for a hundred years got shoved in the same few corridors.”

 

Marius hummed in lieu of answer and flicked the map open with one hand.  He scanned the layout of the catacombs and felt his blood run cold with panic.

 

“Come here, sign these,” the lady behind the booth had been saying, but Marius was too fixed on the winding lines of the catacombs to look up at her.

 

Marius shook his head.  “E, we’re going to need more than the catacombs,” he said, distressed.

 

“Is there… something you’re looking for, sir?” the booth girl asked, leaning forward to tap his shoulder.  He lifted his head to answer, and— 

 

_Wow_ , she was kind of the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.  

 

She giggled a sweet “Thank you,” and pushed a strand of her baby blue hair behind her ear.  _Wow_. 

  
“I— oh _fuck_ did I say that out— I— Sorry!” Marius scrambled to put his camera away and stutter through his hopefully pertinent question. 

 

Enjolras grimaced at the exchange, and elbowed Grantaire to disgustedly whisper, “The tour starts in four and a half minutes and Marius is _flirting_ with a _woman_.” 

 

“Straight people exist,” Grantaire breathed back with false wonder in his voice, ignoring Enjolras’ grumble of _that’snotwhatImeant._

 

The Blue-Haired-Booth-Girl was writing information on the edge of a brochure, babbling to Marius about rappelling equipment and map collections and whatnot.

 

“What’s the 411?” R interjected in a terrible American accent, putting his elbow on Marius’ shoulder.

 

Marius managed to finally avert his lovestruck eyes from Blue-Haired-Booth-Girl and shoved the map into Grantaire’s hands.  “The catacombs don’t go below Flamel’s grave,” he said anxiously.  “But she says… she says that maybe her stepsister might be able to get us into the closed-off parts of the system.”

 

Enjolras, who had been lingering grimly in the background of this exchange, went to grab the brochure the girl had been writing on for Marius.  He pulled on it, but she didn’t let go.  “Marius,” he growled.  “Why would you tell her where we wanted to go?”

 

Blue-Haired-Booth-Girl just smiled.  “You, sir, clearly want the stone,” she said, her voice butter sweet and her grasp on the brochure iron-tight.  “Don’t be like Les Amis and die trying to find something that might not even exist.”

 

Enjolras slowed and leveled his gaze.  Cooly, he said: “Les Amis?  Those spelunkers?  Are they not rotting in prison by now?”

 

She shrugged.  Her desk had two neat piles of files and brochures, and she flipped open a red file that read _A-B-C_.  “Jean Marie Prouvaire was killed in a minefield two years ago,” her voice narrated, softly.  “It looks like Antoine-Marin Combeferre committed suicide shortly after that.”  She probably wanted to sound matter of fact, but her voice bore a distinct tone of sorrow. 

 

“Quite the fan, aren’t you,” Enjolras noted, refusing to waver.

 

“Zacharie Joly, Félix Lesgle, Jean-Jacques Courfeyrac— missing persons, since around Prouvaire’s death.” 

 

Enjolras betrayed no emotion.  Grantaire glared and wrung his hands.  Marius looked anywhere but at the girl.

 

“Narcisse Grantaire and Les Amis’ leader Marcelin Enjolras, sentenced to death six months ago.” 

 

Grantaire huffed, fingers fidgeting.  “What are you getting out of reading us information about people who we’ve never met?” he asked, wetly.

 

With some finality, she pressed a paper from the file into Grantaire’s hands.  “And Ephraim Bahorel, dead last month.  Car crash,” the booth girl said.

 

Grantaire went completely still, gutted.

 

“Simeon Feuilly is alive and accounted for?” Enjolras asked, stiffly, and the blue haired girl nodded.

 

“Yes.  And it rather seems like Mssrs. Enjolras and Grantaire are as well.” 

 

Grantaire saluted, weakly, and shoved Bahorel’s death record into his knapsack.

 

Enjolras scowled.  “You knew.”

 

“Les Amis are too good for this world, M. Enjolras, but they are not all gone.  And I would like to join you.”  

 

He squared his shoulders, ready to tell her not to idolise Les Amis and their mission.  However, her smile was a little too mischievous.  “Mademoiselle,” he said, at length.

 

“Let me rephrase that,” she said, letting her hand creep onto Marius’.  “I’ve been trying to find and join Les Amis for _years;_ I wish with all of my heart I’d been with you even before you lost Prouvaire.  My illegal expeditions haven’t been quite as impressive as yours, but rest assured, Enjolras, I _am_ joining you in your hunt.”  

 

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, and then snapped it shut.  “Mademoiselle,” he said again, faintly alarmed.

 

She extended her hand to him.  “Euphrasie.” 

 

Enjolras looked down at the spindly writing on the blank corner of the brochure.  It read, _Ep, Parnasse, Gueulemer.  Contact, but DO NOT trust_. The cryptic message was accompanied by a few phone numbers and a hastily drawn map of an alley.  “Who are these people?” Enjolras asked, before taking her hand in a firm handshake.  “And why should we trust _you_?”

 

“You hardly have a choice.  We are the only ones who know as much about the stone as the Great M. Marcelin Enjolras does.  We’re what’s left of Patron-Minette.”  


Grantaire elbowed Marius, who was covertly filming the interaction.  “The dark and dirty side of underground Alchemy exploits,” R mumbled.  “They’re all wanted criminals.” 

 

Euphrasie smiled brightly.  “All but me.” 

 

———————————————

 

Rather than appease the blue haired girl, Enjolras dragged his companions into their planned tour of the catacombs.  “We are _not_ getting help from _le_ _Patron-Minette,”_ he spat.

 

Marius pouted, amidst considerations that Euphrasie was possibly the love of his life.  “What’s so bad about Patron-Minette?”

 

Grantaire pulled Marius by the sleeve so that they wouldn’t lag too far behind the tour group.  “They’re just bad news,” he said flippantly, as their tour guide led them past cold corridors of bones.  Electric lights were strung through the passage.  They made a sharp turn past an arched passage that was filled with skulls and various other crumbling bones.

  
“Can we go in here?” Enjolras asked the tour guide.  

 

The tour guide frowned at Enjolras and shined the flashlight at him.  “You want to die?” she asked with a dry laugh.  “You _follow me_ , Monsieur.”  

 

Enjolras lingered for just another moment to look at the arched passage, when he heard a voice.  

“You there.  If you want to go in, you need to find Patron-Minette.” 

 

Enjolras squawked like a jilted chicken and turned to find the voice’s culprit.  He saw nobody but a flash of movement.  After the aggressively vanilla tour concluded, they reviewed that moment on Marius’ camera, and saw the movement to be a short ratlike man who was inhumanly eerie— his pale skin stretched taut over bones, his eyes all black.  

  
Grantaire huffed a dry laugh as Enjolras insisted they find Euphrasie again.  “You only just twenty minutes ago said we’d never ask for help from le Patron-Minette and now you’re crawling to them.”

 

“We didn’t know about the man in the catacombs, before.  He told us who to seek out, and the tour guide was certainly not compliant,” Marius pointed out.  “She may very well know who he is.”

 

“You just want to flirt with her again!” Grantaire said, cracking a smile, and Marius blushed.

 

Enjolras said nothing, and stomped right up to Cosette’s booth.  “I accept your offer.”

 

———————————————

 

Euphrasie bid the remaining scraps of Les Amis not to disclose their identities.  “They do not like Les Amis,” she had said, as she led them into an alleyway.

 

(“And we do not like Patron-Minette,” Enjolras had said back.) 

 

“Mon belle Cosette,” a voice boomed out of the alley, as a large man lurched out from a club entrance.  “What brings these gentlemen to us?” 

 

She smiled. “They are informants of mine.  I sent them to Iran for the Rose Key, and they found it.” 

 

“Give it here!” cried the large man, eyeing Marius’ camera suspiciously. 

 

“We have better than the Rose Key,” Enjolras said, lowering his head in a play on humility.  “We know exactly where the stone is.”

 

Two others had since appeared behind the large man.  A tall, dark-skinned wisp of a gentleman, with thick lines of kohl and red lips, and a petite girl with a clenched jaw who smelled of smoke and incense, with a long black braid over one shoulder.  “Come inside,” said the girl, and her voice was smoky but also honeyed, in the same way as Euphrasie’s.  “I want to know everything you’ve collected for our dear Cosette.”

 

Enjolras and Grantaire followed behind them as they retreated into the haze of loud dance music inside the club.  Marius lingered behind and said, “Cosette?”  

  
Euphrasie pulled him into the club.  “Yes, since we’re friends— call me Cosette.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr as prouvairetry! Come say hi :) 
> 
> If you spot any big gaping stupid mistakes, that's all my fault, and please let me know <3  
> The next chapter should be up within the week!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as prouvairetry! Come say hi :))))


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